Watching
by Siridere
Summary: A young ghost tries to regain memory of her life. An older one tries to hold on to the hope that someday his daughter will finally find happiness. Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes are being watched by the dead. First Person POV. May become Sherlock/Molly in the end.((summary has been edited))
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is a plot bunny that's been bothering me for a while. I apologize in advance for any elementary mistakes that you may find. And, it's my first fic to see the light of day. **

**Set from/around the episode The Great Game.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I do not make money off of this. I only own my OC. **

**Chapter 1**

* * *

"Hullo?" Molly answers her mobile, munching on a piece of toast. The person on the other end says something to which Molly makes a face.

I hazard a guess. It must be him.

"Sherlock, it's my day off."

Bingo.

"I have plans..." Molly says, shoulders slumping.

A pause, as Molly listens to what he is saying.

"What about Wendy? Can's she help you?"

The garbled sound of Sherlock talking on the other end sounds annoyed to my ears. I raise my eyebrows at the older man who sits across from me. The older man pulls a 'not this again' face.

"Sherlock, you can't just call me on my day off and expect me to drop everything to come help you with your-your inane projects!"

The older man smirks. I smile too. Molly had good reason to not go help Sherlock-but behind our smiles, we both have a feeling that Molly will go help Sherlock in the end.

"Oh, sod it." Molly mutters to herself, puts the toast down on the plate, and marches to her room in indignation. "Just this _once_, Sherlock."

We both exchange a look. How many times had she said 'Just this once'? and, who did that ponce think he was, calling Molly on her day off like that?

Molly emerges from her bedroom after a while, hair in a ponytail, and changed out of her comfortable nightclothes. She fills the cat bowl with food, scratches Toby behind the ears, and heads out.

We trail behind her like ghosts. We don't move our feet, and yet we move, floating a little above the ground.

I suppose I should explain.

We don't trail behind Molly _like_ ghosts. We _are _ghosts.

We've bound ourselves to Molly. We can't go a half mile without being held back by our mysterious leash. Well, at least we can go about a little without Molly-I'm especially thankful for it when Molly brings back her boyfriend, Jim to watch Glee. Then, I take the liberty to leave her flat. We choose follow her because while we can stay behind at Molly's flat, when Molly goes too far, we also move with her. It involves lots and lots of being dragged through walls and buildings. While it's hardly harmful to us since we pass right through obstacles like these, it's very disconcerting.

Why bind ourselves to Molly? Well, the alternative-not binding yourself at all to anything for a long time-means that you become a meandering nothing, fade, and become a mere shadow of your former self, as I found out later, and that's not very nice.

But, there are other reasons besides that. For example, the older man has bonded to Molly years and years before, because he's her father. His unfinished business is Molly. In his life, it was his deepest wish to see his daughter happy. So, he stayed. Watching and waiting.

Me? Well, my other reason- it's a little less straightforward than that. I'm not related to Molly Hooper at all. At least I think so. I've never even heard or seen of her(as far as I know, which is not much), until, well, my postmortem was done by her a few months ago. One's bound to notice stuff like that.

Anyways, the reason I'm even here is because she brings back my memories. See, when I died, I lost all memory of my life. But when I saw Molly, boom. Flashback. That's why I want to be around her.

Of course, the memories weren't very telling. It involved a slate blue house with a little boy of around six in it that I didn't recognize(how can I? I don't remember anybody from my life) and a little wooden box with colorful marbles in it. I hope I get lucky and remember who the boy is, and the significance of the box with marbles.

_Losing all memory of your life happens to some of us,_ Mr. Hooper told me when I asked if it happens to others- but it didn't happen to him. As soon as he died, he was bound to Molly, as she was present at his deathbed. They shared many memories, and he could build off quickly from there.

_Seeing something familiar helps,_ Mr. Hooper said(he was something of an expert on the deceased and their loss of memory. Don't ask why.),_ if you want to remember the life you lived. It serves as an anchor point for your mind. _

I wonder why it was Dr. Hooper that my mind decided was something I could reconstruct my memories from. That adds to the list of mysteries I would like to solve someday soon.

Dr. Hooper hails a cab, and soon, one of them pulls up. We all clamber in. Molly sits in between us, oblivious to our presence. What she _can_ sense is that it's a little chilly in the cab. She asks the cabbie to turn up the heat, and rubs her arms.

Mr. Hooper sighs as Molly's mobile sounds out that there are a few texts that are waiting to be read.

"It's him, isn't it?" I say to him, craning my neck to see over Molly's shoulder.

Mr. Hooper glances at the screen, and nods.

"That's him."

By 'him', we almost always mean Sherlock Holmes, biggest git ever to exist on the earth-but also the most brilliant one. I've only hung around Molly Hooper for a few months but I have seen at St. Barts how demanding and dismissive he is towards Molly, and it sets my blood boiling. People shouldn't treat her like that.

I'm sure Molly knows it too, but being in love with that man probably has something to do with her putting up with him so much.

"He is such a bloody git to her." I complain, looking at the terse texts he sends to Molly Hooper.

"Mind your mouth, young lady." Mr. Hooper reminds me, but he really didn't seem to mind. I know he thinks the same of him, but he trusts his daughter's decisions enough not to insult him.

"I'm fourteen. I still count as a child." I say petulantly. I somewhat pride myself in my childishness, and abhor being called a lady, however young. It makes me sound fourteen. I feel old whenever people say that.

Mr. Hooper has suffered my presence long enough to know when to give up on my childish behavior. He looks out of the cab window, expression thoughtful. There is just something about him that garners respect. I don't know much about him, but he is a good man. I can tell.

Not trying to shoo me out in the first few days I started hanging around Molly's flat was quite the indication to that.

We arrive at the looming, old building that is St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and follow Molly to the lab, where the consulting detective is most likely waiting impatiently for Molly to show up.

Surprisingly, when Molly enters the lab, and we pass through the door that is just swinging shut, Sherlock Holmes does not even look up.

He sits in front of his microscope, eyes closed, his hands neatly pressed together under his chin in a praying position. Of course, we know better than to know that he is praying. He's in his mind palace, completely oblivious to everything.

Molly Hooper sighs, and Mr. Hooper pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

If I were Molly Hooper, I would leave right this second, because what kind of arsehole calls someone back to work on their day off, and expects them to wait while they're doing the mind palace thing?

I think Molly Hooper mirrors my thoughts, because she turns on her heel, and walks back out of the lab. "Is she dumping the git?" I ask, an inappropriately smug feeling rising in my chest. Mr. Hooper shakes his head.

"My Molly-she's not like that."

I shrug, feeling sure that I'm right, and that we're leaving Barts.

I'm disappointed, however, when we come back to the lab with Molly holding a cup of steaming hot black coffee in her hands. We follow her back into the lab, as she puts the cup in front of Sherlock Holmes with a loud thunk. The coffee splashes a little, and some drops land squarely on the man's nose.

I watch, incredulous and fascinated, as the coffee drop shivers, and then travels down to the tip of his nose to drop onto his lip. He doesn't even twitch or move a finger.

"But that stuff is scalding!" I say to the amused Mr. Hooper. I turn to Molly Hooper. "Did you see that?" Of course, trying to talk to one of the living is as useless as, well, trying to speak through a mouthful of cotton. Talking to Molly Hooper is more for my benefit than for anybody else.

Apparently, Molly is completely used to this freaky non-movement on his part, and seats herself at the far end of the lab table, arms crossed.

Mr. Hooper, winking at Molly, walks over to where the unmoving figure is seated on the bench, and puts his hand on Sherlock's back. Well, as much as he could, as we have a tendency to pass right through things and people. Then, Mr. Hooper closes his eyes, concentrating, and sends a shock of cold to pass through Sherlock's spine.

I've always wondered how he did that. I tried doing it on passing strangers, but all I gave them was a cold spot. Nothing like what Mr. Hooper could do.

The man, previously immobile, gasps, and snaps open his eyes. Mr. Hooper smiles conspiratorially at Molly. Molly, of course, doesn't see. But like I said, these gestures towards Molly are really more for our own peace of mind.

Molly is silent and unreadable as she watches Sherlock Holmes look around him sharply, wondering what on earth had just rudely pulled him out of his mind palace. Then, his sharp eyes land on Molly.

"Ah, Molly." He says, showing no indication of being startled awake by Mr. Hooper mere seconds ago, "Ten minutes late, but no matter. Can you get me some coffee?"

Mr. Hooper gives Sherlock Holmes a withering look.

"I've got you some already." Molly says, pointedly looking at the mug in front of him, and glances briefly at the drop of coffee that now stains his white shirt. "Black, two sugars, just as you like it."

Sherlock blinks rapidly, and seems at a loss that he did not deduce that as soon as he came out of his mind palace. I giggle. Seeing him flummoxed is priceless. He looks at the offending coffee cup with a frown. His lips move to speak, but all that emerges in the end, is an eloquent, "Ah. Well, then."

Molly doesn't even wait for a 'thank you' from Sherlock Holmes.

"So, what was it that you need?"

That's when another memory hits me on the head.

**End note: R&R is never required, but always appreciated. Will update as soon as possible.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you for the reviews and follows! I appreciate your interest in this story. Here is Chapter 2. **

**And, I just realized that in my Author's note on the first chapter, it said set from/around the episode The Reichenbach Fall-it was a mistake. Sorry about that :p. I fixed it, and it should say from/around The Great Game. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. **

**Chapter 2**

Suddenly, vivid images swim through my head, and I'm there, staring out blankly into space, looking like an idiot. Of course, there's no one there that can see me, excluding the ever patient soul that is Mr. Hooper.

I must have stood there like that long enough to worry someone, because Mr. Hooper puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern there is so genuine that I'm at a loss at what to say back.

"I'm-I-" I take a deep breath(ghosts have no need to breathe-but old habits die hard.) "I had some of my memories come back."

"Ah. All good then?"

I smile. "Yeah. Fine. All good. Superb." I rattle off, but I think Mr. Hooper sees how discomforted I actually am. He squeezes my shoulder comfortingly. I don't quite like how discerning Mr. Hooper is sometimes. I dislike the feeling of being read like an open book.

I shuffle away a few paces to collect my thoughts. This time, my memory had a conversation, and shed some light on the who the little boy was-is from my last memory.

In the memory, I don't look younger than I look now, so it must have been in the same year that I died. I'm sitting on a park bench with the little boy from my last memory, eating vanilla ice cream.

"_So, it's your birthday this week." I say, smiling and nudging the boy in the ribs. "What do you wish for?"_

_The boy squirms away from my elbow, ice cream precariously held in one small hand. _

"_Those are s'posed to be a secret! Mummy told me."_

"_Oh, come on. Just between you and me."_

_He shakes his head adamantly. _

"_Oh fine. Have it your way then." I cross my arms and deliberately look away. I take a bite of my ice cream. _

_There is silence for a few minutes as we stare in different directions at people walking or jogging by, and eat our ice cream. _

"_I won't tell you, Bailey." The little boy says, as if trying to make his resolve stronger by restating it. _

"_Hm." I say, taking another bite. "That's fine with me, as long as it's fine with you, Jamie."_

"_I'm still not telling you! Stop doing that!"_

"_I'm not doing anything." I say calmly, but I recognize that look on my face-it's the look that I have when I'm trying to hold back laughter._

"_I'll tell you something else, then, if you stop doing that." Jamie says, looking triumphant. I give up. _

"_Tell me." I say seriously, but I'm smiling. _

"_And if you promise to keep it a secret."_

"_Cross my heart." I say. _

_He leans in, and whispers, "I like Addy from my class." He pulls back and blushes. I take a large bite out of my ice cream. I swallow, looking perplexed._

"_Addy. From your class."_

"_Yeah."_

_For some reason, I look confused. "She new?"_

"_Nope. She's been around for a whooole month now." He says, smiling, an adorable dreamy look on his face. "She's shy, though, so everybody ignores her."_

_The little boy's face scrunches up in consternation. "Do you think that Addy would like to come to my birthday party?" His eyes widen. "Do you think you can ask her, Bailey? Pleeease?"_

_I can see I'm almost about to tell the boy to do it himself, and that it would be a good experience, but the look on the boy's face decides it for me._

"'_kay. I'll do it." I say. "Although she may not say yes…"_

"_She'll come." he says, brimming confidence and smiling brightly. "I'll tell mum that she'll be coming over." He hops off_ _the bench_ _as someone approaches-probably his brother, from the resemblance. "Thanks, Bailey!" _

_I wave goodbye to the little boy and teenager. _

I should be happy I'm making progress in remembering my life, but instead, I'm feeling…uncomfortable. The reason why I was so unconcerned with the fact that I was dead, was because I didn't remember the life I had. Now I feel like I actually lost something by dying. Now that I remember-even if it's a little, tiny bit, I now feel like I've failed a promise. I'm no longer carefree in my state of being dead. I have things I have left undone.

I shove aside my thoughts about my memories for the moment, as it grows more and more painful the more I think about it, and go over to Sherlock Holmes, who is making odd gestures in the air, with eyes closed. He bats away something with his right hand, and then, his other hand makes as if to pull something from that side. Then, his hands still abruptly, and they press together under his chin. I wonder if it's the mind palace again, or if he has other strange habits. It's the first time I've seen him flail around like that.

I glance over at Mr. Hooper. He is looking intently at what Molly is assisting Sherlock with. Really, while being a ghost, there's not much we can do except watch.

Watch and _remember_… I squeeze my eyes shut as my newly recovered memory flashes through my head again. I push it back. I thought that remembering would be a more happy occurrence. Apparently, I was quite wrong.

I force my mind to return to studying the Consulting detective before me, when his eyes snap open, and he stares right at me. I jump a little, but I remember that I'm invisible to all living humans. Sure enough, he turns his head, and looks towards Molly, who is busily doing exactly what he requested.

I wish I were an expert on the looks people give each other, because the one Sherlock Holmes gives Molly is quite unreadable. Perhaps he's doing that deducing thing, or perhaps it could pass as checking her out, but you never know with that bloke.

He returns his gaze back to his notebook as Molly turns his way, and he scribbles something down. I peek over his shoulder to see, but there's nothing written there but random words that possibly no one but Sherlock Holmes knows the significance of.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Sherlock Holmes breaks the silence in the lab.

"Oh. Oh!" He hops up energetically, a smile splitting his face. He rubs his hands together in what can only be called glee. "Clever. _Very _clever."

"What did you find?" Molly asks, her tired eyes now alight with curiosity. The man now paces back and forth, flipping his mobile in his hands, and chuckling. He doesn't pause to answer Molly's question, but continues pacing as he fires off a few texts.

"Sherlock?"

"Not clever enough, though. Could have continued on in his wicked ways, but just one mistake is all it takes to undo it."

"What mistake? Sherlock?"

The only answer Molly gets is "The deodorant, John!"

The door shuts, and Molly stares after it for a few seconds, and looks down.

"It's Molly." She mutters, but Sherlock Holmes is long gone. Mr. Hooper glowers at the door that Mr. Holmes just exited.

"Don't let him get you down, love." He says softly to her. I hope that Molly Hooper hears it.

* * *

To be honest, I don't really like him. Jim, Molly's boyfriend. I don't have any right to like or dislike any of Molly Hooper's acquaintances, but I have my opinions. He was, or seemed, as Molly said, 'nice'. But nice in such a way that made me uncomfortable. Sometimes, the niceness seemed overdone. But I didn't think he would be a bad person.

I stand and stare out the window of Molly's flat, overlooking the street. Today, I didn't go out for a walk, as is my habit when Molly brings over her boyfriend, as I want to distract myself from my memories if only just for the night. Mr. Hooper sits on the chair situated near the window, listening to his daughter and her boyfriend's conversations.

"Molly, darling," Jim drawls, snuggled on the couch next to her, Glee playing in the background. "What's the matter?"

Molly sighs. "It's..him."

"Him? You mean Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah."

Jim chuckles. "What did he do this time?"

"He was being himself." Molly mumbles into his chest. "Not anything out of the ordinary, really."

"Really? You can talk to me, Molly."

"He called me John."

"Ohhh…that's painful." Mr. Hooper frowns at the tinge of sarcasm that is in Jim's voice.

"I mean," Molly goes on, "Would it hurt to see who you're talking to before telling them something? But he's just like that, isn't he? I suppose it's just silly being bothered by what he says-especially when he's on a case. He can be quite snappish when he's onto something. Gets him frustrated when he doesn't get the answers quickly enough."

Jim makes no reply.

"I'm sorry." Molly says, sighing. "I just ranted about him again, didn't I?"

"No worries, darling. But you should be careful-I'm getting curious about this Sherlock Holmes you always talk about."

I can almost _feel_ Molly blushing.

We should have guessed what would happen when Jim's curiosity got the better of him.

* * *

**Author's note: Although I said that I would update as soon as possible, it wasn't as soon as I expected. I had to figure out some plot points. And also, I apologize for the slowness of the chapters. It will pick up pace soon(I hope!), and next chapter, we'll get to see that…you know…that awkward scene in the Great Game…so that should be fun.**

**As always, your reviews, follows, faves will be appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Thank you for your continued support! I'm surprised that there are people out there interested in this fic. Have some imaginary cookies and a hug from me. **

**Disclaimer: Still don't own anything you recognize. **

**Chapter 3**

* * *

We follow Molly through the halls of St. Barts. Molly had finished her postmortems for the day, and she is heading towards the lab. Must be Sherlock Holmes, I sigh. She did give him access to the lab today. Sherlock claimed he had a very important case. Molly had been quick to help.

We arrive at the lab doors. Molly pauses for a moment, but pushes it open, and swings in.

"Any luck?" She says in a cheery voice. I wonder how she manages it all the time. John Watson looks up, surprised at the intrusion. Sherlock Holmes responds to Molly with an enthusiastic, "Oh, yes!" There's that manic glint in his eyes again- the kind that he gets when a case involves lots of mind-bending puzzles and people in danger. "He's crazy." I say to Mr. Hooper. He has no time to reply to my comment as the lab door opens again.

"Oh, sorry, I don't-" Jim's voice is uncertain as he pokes his head through the door.

Sherlock Holmes does a double take. His eyes pass from Molly to Jim rapidly. He probably already knows who Jim is, and quite a lot more. I wonder if Jim will escape unscathed from this encounter. Sherlock does have a tendency to be quite…rude.

"Oh, Jim, hi!" Molly says, surprised, confused, yet equally delighted. Jim makes as if to head back out, but Molly waves him in. "Come in, come in!"

Sherlock turns his eyes back to his microscope. "He might not say anything this time." Mr. Hooper says, raising his eyebrows. I think the chance of that happening highly doubtful, but then, Sherlock Holmes is quite unpredictable.

"Jim," Molly says, as Jim walks over to her. "This, is Sherlock Holmes." She gestures to Sherlock, who is studiously ignoring them. Dr. Watson stands behind Sherlock Holmes awkwardly. He shifts as Molly turns to him. "And er, sorry," her hands pose a question. Dr. Watson looks put out that Molly does not remember his name. "John Watson. Hi." Jim barely gives John a 'Hi' in return before his gaze fixes on Sherlock.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes" His voice carries a tone of awe. "Molly's told me all about you." Molly looks down, blushing. Jim does not notice, but instead, shifts from foot to foot as he gazes intently on Sherlock Holmes who is still making a show of being too engrossed with his research to care.

I find myself waiting for Sherlock Holmes to start his deductions, but it still doesn't come. Mr. Hooper might be right this time.

"Are you on one of your cases?" Jim steps closer, inspecting the man.

"Jim works in IT upstairs, That's how we met - office romance." Molly continues her introduction of her boyfriend enthusiastically. I wonder if Molly sees how Sherlock's body grows rigid with every word she utters about Jim. Mr. Hooper certainly does. Mr. Hooper always tells me that Sherlock Holmes does have a heart, emotions, and all the rest of the kit. If I am not so skeptical about all things Sherlock Holmes, I would think that the consulting detective is jealous, but I believe it is something more like not liking being disturbed while on a case.

Sherlock finally spares a look over his shoulder at Jim. The action is so casual and seemingly harmless that I couldn't possibly have expected his words would have so much weight:

"Gay."

* * *

Molly sits quietly in the morgue, eyes glued to the floor. What followed after Jim left the lab was typical Sherlock Holmes. After telling her she gained weight, he told her exactly why he thought Jim was gay, and told her in so many words to 'break it off and save yourself the pain'.

I wonder if he sees just how much he had hurt her. Molly turns over her mobile in her hands, conflicting emotions flitting across her face.

"What will she do?" I ask Mr. Hooper who sits next to Molly on the cold morgue floor, back against the drawers that have bodies in them. "Why do you think Jim dated Molly, if Sherlock's right, and he's gay?"

Mr. Hooper frowns. "I don't know. But the amount of interest he had in Sherlock Holmes…perhaps he wanted to get a closer look, so he used her…" Mr. Hooper looks angry. What father wouldn't?

"There's more to Jim than meets the eye, I think." Mr. Hooper says, sighing. "There always is, with people."

Molly finally stops fiddling with her mobile, and now, jaw set, she sends out a text.

* * *

I stand outside of Molly's flat, looking up at the cloudy night sky. Molly had cancelled the date with Jim at The Fox, and had instead, called him over to her flat. They are, as far as I know, still busy yelling at each other.

Mr. Hooper stands outside with me, hands in his pockets. People pass us by hurriedly to get back to their homes.

"Do you think that she'll be okay after this?" I ask, and Mr. Hooper glances at me.

"She's a strong girl. She'll pull through." Mr. Hooper looks sad and tired. He had thought that Molly might be happy with Jim, although he didn't fully approve of him from the start.

The door opens, and Jim stalks out. He looks remarkably unmoved for someone who had just gotten into an argument with Molly. In fact, he looks like he's just about to burst into peals of laughter. His lips twitch upwards a few times before finally letting out a quiet giggle. It has a mad tinge to it. Mr. Hooper's face darkens. Using her and also laughing about it? Jim was, indeed, not what he seemed. An expensive looking black car pulls up, and he slides in. Jim and the car soon disappear into the night.

"Jim has one expensive car." I note.

"Yes, either he gets quite a lot more pay for working in IT, or...he doesn't work there at all." Mr. Hooper mutters. We walk back into the flat.

I sit on my usual place by the window. Toby, Molly's cat, glares at me from the chair. I ignore him, and soon enough, he huddles back into a ball, fast asleep.

Molly had locked herself in her bedroom. Mr. Hooper followed her, concerned. I am left to my thoughts, and my own problems.

The thing is, I am in the middle of debating something within myself. Ever since that day at the lab, I have been considering seeking out the boy, the park, or something from my memory. I know that putting things off is not good. I needed to know what sort of life I've led, and what kind of things I left unfinished. The feeling increased with every passing day.

Unfortunately, I had nothing much to go on. What sort of park was it? If I did find it, by some chance, will the boy be there? And how would I go about searching without anything short of breaking the bond with Molly?

But first of all, could I break the bond, at all? It had been easy enough to make. I close my eyes, and mentally feel for the leash-like bond I have with Molly Hooper. It's there. I tug at it. It doesn't give. I tug harder and harder. I begin to think that it won't break at all, when suddenly, with a jerk, I am thrown back through the wall of Molly's flat. I shake my head, bewildered as I float above the street. I feel less secure, somehow, like the winds could sweep me off to somewhere I don't know at any moment. I gulp, and probe for the bond. It's snapped, the frayed, cut edges of it waving in my mind.

I don't know if this was the wisest decision I've made so far. In fact, I can already tell that I've done something stupid, but this is what I need to do. I know it-deep inside me. So, cursing my lack of any sort of sense, and more importantly, sense of direction, I float in the first direction that comes to mind. The direction that Jim drove off to.

* * *

Everything looks quite different from up above; boxes for tops of buildings-lines for streets-it's quite useful being able to fly over buildings like this. Well, what I am doing right now is a lot less dramatic than flying, but it's still better than walking those streets, not knowing what lies ahead, or which street leads where.

I float down whenever I see a park, trying to see if it is the same park I saw in my memory. Unfortunately, park benches are not much to go on, although I have no problem seeing in the darkness.

I search for hours, my mind centered on one forlorn hope. Find the park. Find it, and maybe I would have my memories back. I search until I realize that I'm quite far away from Molly's flat. I look behind me, and the sky is blushing pink. I blink. How long have I searched, and how far away am I from where I started?

I groan as I realize that in my reckless, search, I had not even thought of the way to find myself back to the flat. I feel depressed as I re-realize that this search was a poor last ditch attempt. How could I have dared to feel so hopeful searching all over for a park, when the only hint I had to go on was an ordinary looking park bench?

Then, out of the blue, I feel my body being pushed forcefully to the right. I'm too surprised to resist. I'm moving quite quickly, and I flail my arms uselessly as I cartwheel through the air. The sky is growing brighter by the second. I realize just what is pushing me so relentlessly through the air - wind. I relax, and let the wind push me where it pleases, but then, I have a sinking feeling.

What if I can't stop?

I try to drop out of the wind's currents, but it holds me in a strong grip. I struggle, seeing the buildings passing beneath at an incredible speed. What if I can't get back? What if I leave England behind, and end up on the other side of the world? I panic at the speed at which I am leaving everything behind. Then, another wind current takes me up, and I'm whirling back towards the direction I was before.

I pass through streets, my feet passing through the heads of some people waiting at a bus stop, my flailing hands finding no purchase on things that I pass through as easily as air.

A desperate thought crosses my head. What if I bond with someone? Anyone - it didn't matter now-I can break it whenever I want. So I reach out with my mind, and try to bond with someone passing the street below, and am met by a solid wall constructed around the person's soul, preventing me. So I can't just bond with anyone, huh? I think miserably as I'm thrown about like a leaf on the winds. But I keep trying. I can't stay up here in the wind currents-what would happen to me if I can't get back down, properly anchored? Desperation renewed, I keep trying. All of my attempts are met with a hard, unforgiving wall. I can't be stuck in this! I throw out a last attempt to bond with a person who is hailing a cab. I don't see the person's face. And I don't care, because instantly, I feel steady, as the winds pass around me, and I'm still. I let out a breath. I'm fine. I've successfully bonded with someone.

I wearily follow the bond, curious as to whom I've managed to leash myself to. The cab moves quickly, and I sense that the person I bonded with is in it. I slip through the window, sitting next to the driver's seat. I look behind me, and blink incredulously. There, sitting calmly on the passenger's seat, suit, coat, with a mop of curls topping it all, is Sherlock Holmes himself.

* * *

**I know that the plot seems to be going nowhere at the moment, but your patience will be appreciated. And any sort of support is always fuel and encouragement for me. Thank you for reading! *hides under blankets***


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Thank you for taking interest in this little fic of mine. Thank you, thank you so much. For you who followed, for you who faved, for you precious person who always reviews every chapter(you know who you are!), you guys are great. *tears***

**Here is the next chapter. I hope you like it, despite my lacking writing skills.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. I own Bailey, however. And Mr. Hooper.  
**

* * *

Molly is fine. Molly will be fine.

I repeat this to myself, as that is the way to go about being dead without giving up.

However, despite my very efforts to repel those worries I have for my daughter, they cannot wholly be eradicated.

I sigh as I gaze at her sleeping form. She has tear stains on her cheeks, and her nose is still red from crying. I want to hold her close, and tell her that it will be alright, and that Jim from IT was wrong to use her like that.

All I can do in reality is simply to watch.

"Molly, my girl, I'm always here. I'm still with you." I whisper to her, useless though it is. No matter how much I will it to be heard, it is simply impossible. There is always that barrier between us-the dead and the living.

I still think of Molly as my little girl-the little girl that needs help from me. The little girl that needs me.

But part of my mind sees clearly, how much she's already grown out of my help. How much she has grown out of me. How much heartbreak she had survived without my comfort. How strong my Molly is.

I push those thoughts away as I pass from the room. If I continue down that road, what reason have I to remain?

So instead, I wonder where Bailey has gone. She is usually sitting by the window quietly thinking, or annoying the cat, but she is no longer there.

She must have gone out on a walk, as she sometimes does, I reason. I shouldn't worry. I stand next to the cat, who is stretching and yawning on the chair by the window. He sees me, and gives me a lazy look from its green eyes.

"Go to Molly." I say to the cat, who is looking bored, flicking its tail. "If you want to be useful." The cat gives me a condescending look, but surprisingly obeys my order, and slinks off of the chair, heading towards Molly's bedroom.

I sit in the vacated chair, my thoughts turning back to Molly's ex, Jim. He is a strange case. If Sherlock Holmes is to be believed, then Jim had been using Molly simply for the purpose of getting to Sherlock Holmes. But if that were indeed the case, then why not use simpler means?

Why use my daughter?

Then, an unpleasant thought forms. One that I wish were not so plausible.

Jim may not have just been a common thoughtless git.

Considering Sherlock Holmes' job as a detective...

Jim might be a criminal.

* * *

I gape at Sherlock Holmes, who is texting someone on his mobile. It can't be! But why this guy?

"Are you kidding me?_ Sherlock Holmes_?" I say aloud, but he is unperturbed as usual. It's a pity, really, because I would like to say many a thing to him, none of them especially pleasant or polite.

I slide back to sit next to the detective, frowning at the screen of his mobile. Good lord, he texts fast!

**Molly, I'm coming to your flat. **

**-SH**

**Don't say I didn't warn you. **

**-SH**

I am relieved that I am going back to Molly's flat. At least I can try to re-make the bond with her, and stay clear of the git as much as possible, and try to remember more before doing something stupid again.

I feel silly about that search last night. Clearly, I wasn't thinking at all.

But, what on earth is the business he has with Molly this time at this ungodly hour? I wonder to myself. Experiments that he needs 'help' with?

But then, I always assume too much.

Sherlock Holmes fiddles with his mobile. It looks like he has trouble staying still this time, despite that whole show with being so still that it freaked me out that other day at Barts.

His face, however, is a completely different story. It's stone cold and unmoving. It has an intense look in it. Worried? Angry? Both?

I put a stop to my theorizing. They're rarely right, anyways.

"Can't you go any faster?" Sherlock Holmes says impatiently to the unfortunate cabbie.

"It's either this, or get another cab." The cabbie responds without missing a beat.

Sherlock Holmes sinks back into his seat, crossing his arms. He glances at his watch, glaring at the back of the cabbie's head.

The cab is going quite fast, actually. But not fast enough, it seems.

His mobile rings. He picks it up, irritated.

"What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock says, eyes narrowing.

Mycroft? What kind of weird name is that?

"I'm busy. Can't you see?"

A monotonous voice sounds on the other end.

"Oh, don't try to deny it, brother mine. It's rather pathetic. I know you have eyes on me."

Brother? I gag. If one Holmes was this insufferable, then the other…

I let that train of thought die.

"Bugger off, Mycroft." He snaps. "I think we both have a bigger problem called Jim Moriarty at the moment." He hangs up abruptly.

Jim. I frown. What a coincidence that Molly's boyfriend-er, former boyfriend had the same name…

And there I go again. Assuming too much. I sigh, crossing my arms.

Sherlock Holmes stares out of his side of the window, face looking sour. I, in turn look through my side of the window, and pull back with a shriek as a face looks at me with pale, crazed eyes.

His face is plastered to the window. It looks at me with unblinking eyes. I immediately recognize it as a ghost. It moves with perfect pace with the cab, its hands splayed on the window.

"You can't catch me!" the man shrieks, then, in a manic, low whisper, "I'm still here! I'm still with you."

I cower in fear, but I realize, he doesn't see me at all-he's looking at Sherlock. Suddenly, he's on Sherlock's side of the window.

"Sherlock, you can't see me-you don't see me-but I'm always, always here! Thought you'd gotten rid of me, locking me in jail-I'm still with you, Sherlock. Still-"

Then, the ghost is swept away by wind, much like I was not long ago.

Is that what I would have become, had I not bonded with someone quickly enough? I shudder unconsciously.

The cab pulls to a stop, and Sherlock hurriedly pays the driver, and hops out, running up to Molly's door. He immediately pulls out a box with tools in them. I realize belatedly that they are lock-picking tools, as Sherlock selects one, and opens the lock without a hitch.

He strides through the door, looking around keenly, then doesn't hesitate a second as he goes into Molly's bedroom.

Mr. Hooper is there with Molly, and looks at Sherlock Holmes, then me, with a look of surprise.

"What is he doing here?" Mr. Hooper asks me, and I can only shake my head. I'm just as clueless as he is.

Then, I immediately close my eyes and grapple for the bond, wanting to tether myself to Molly Hooper again, who is much more amiable than the consulting detective.

I stop myself. I'm already bonded to Sherlock Holmes. I can't bond to two persons at once, and so if I wanted to bond with Molly, I'd have to break the bond with Sherlock Holmes first.

I don't want to risk doing that again. Look how it turned out last time.

I feel like pulling my hair out.

Molly is sitting up in her bed, looking down at her hands with a tired expression, looks up sharply at the sudden intrusion of privacy by the detective, mouth open in shock.

"But-what-how-" she sputters, "You could have knocked."

Sherlock Holmes looks irritated.

"So, you're alright then." It's not a question. It's a statement.

"What do you-" Molly says, but is cut off by Sherlock. "No, don't say anything, I can tell that Jim Moriarty didn't think you worth his time. Well, then, good day, Molly." He flashes her one of his fake smiles, then, turns to leave.

Molly catches his arm.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" Molly says, voice eerily calm.

"I mean what I said. Moriarty didn't-"

"It's him, isn't it." Molly says, her voice calmer then ever. "My boyfriend, Jim. He's the criminal you were chasing."

I glance at Sherlock Holmes, and I'm speechless at the affirmation on his face. To think that Molly Hooper had been dating a criminal!

Mr. Hooper mutters something under his breath, and rubs a hand over his face.

"Very sharp, Molly. I believe you should break it off with 'Jim' as soon as possible."

How can he be so calm about it? She was in danger all this time dating Jim. It wouldn't harm anyone to be a little worried about her, would it?

Molly stares down at her hands again. "I already did."

"Good." Sherlock says, and leaves the room without another word. I stand in the doorway, not wanting to follow Sherlock Holmes, but I know I don't really have an option.

Molly gets up from bed, and heads out towards the kitchen. I would miss Molly and Mr. Hooper, even if I only knew them for a few months. They are the only people I know, actually, since my memories of my life are gone.

"Bailey, have you bonded yourself to Sherlock Holmes?" Mr. Hooper breaks me out of my thoughts.

He always seems to know more then I think.

"Yeah." I feel embarrassed just thinking about the reckless search the night before.

"Why?" Mr. Hooper seems genuinely curious. I fidget a little.

"Uh, I _kinda_ cut my bond with Molly, so I needed another person to anchor me. I didn't know it was him." I feel my heart sinking into my toes as I feel myself being slowly dragged back towards Sherlock Holmes. He must already be hailing a cab outside.

"Don't be worried. I'll still see you around soon if Sherlock Holmes keeps on dropping by Molly's flat like this," Mr. Hooper says, smiling. I grin back a little helplessly. "Besides, maybe you'll have more chance of finding familiar things in a new location."

I wish I had his optimism.

"Yeah. You're right. Mr. Hooper?"

He looks up at me.

"Thank you for letting me hang around."

He smiles, and it's the best thing I've seen him do. He should smile more often. It makes him look younger.

I pass through the wall, and I'm back in a cab with Sherlock Holmes, heading towards the man's flat.

* * *

I spent the whole first day of being in Sherlock Holmes and John Watson's flat, poking my nose into things. There was a cluttered sort of homey ambiance to 221b. It was quite different from Molly's flat, but not in a bad way. The one thing I regretted was going into the kitchen. I mean, who keeps human eyeballs in their kitchen? Crazy people!

All my nosiness, however, didn't get me any really useful information, except that the two inhabitants of the flat might be a little mentally unhinged. But honestly, what was I expecting? Something from my past to appear in the abode of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?

I shake my head. I'm never that lucky.

I float back into the living room for lack of anything else left to explore. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes sit in their respective chairs, sipping tea. I sit myself on the floor next to John Watson, watching the exchange between the two men.

"Sherlock, where was it that you needed to go to so quickly?"

"Hm? The bathroom."

"No, you know what I mean."

"And what is that?" Sherlock Holmes peers at John Watson from over his cup.

"I mean, after the pool." John Watson sighs. "You just ran off without an explanation. And you looked worried."

"Worried?" Sherlock says indignantly. "I was not worried."

"Hm. No." John Watson retorts. "I guess panicked is the right word for it. Well, what was it then? Some experiments you needed to check up on?"

"Ridiculous. I was merely checking up on a colleague." Sherlock Holmes looks affronted.

"A colleague." John Watson says, clearing his throat. "Colleague. One that you care about that much to check up on and worry about." He looks thoughtful. "As far as I know there are only a handful of those."

Sherlock picks up a newspaper that is lying on the arm of the chair, and passes his eyes through it. His actions speak clearly: The discussion is utterly dull, and it is over.

John has none of it.

"So, I doubt it's Mike,"

A snort from Sherlock.

"Or Mycroft,"

Sherlock sighs, and flips a page of the newspaper.

"Lestrade?" John frowns.

"Interesting."

"Am I right, then? You were worried about Lestrade?"

"No, it's simply interesting how dull the human brain can be, John. Now, I suggest you stop with your conjectures and drink your tea. It's getting cold."

It seems that Sherlock Holmes does care for Molly Hooper. Whatever that incident at 'the pool' was, it probably involved Jim, and he was worried for Molly's safety. He really is hard to understand.

* * *

It has been a full week since I started following Sherlock Holmes around, and I haven't, despite what Mr. Hooper had said, seen anything familiar. Nothing brought back memories of my past. Despite searching around Baker Street, I didn't see the little boy anywhere, nor did I see the slate blue house, or the park.

I'm frustrated. And I'm even a little angry at my lot of being dead.

I walk around the flat, wishing I could throw something at the wall, or at the consulting detective who is sitting immobile in his chair, occasionally glancing at his mobile, and sighing. I can almost swear that every time I see him, he is in the exactly same spot, staring mournfully at his mobile. I throw my hand at the jack knife stuck on the mantelpiece, but my hand swipes through it harmlessly. So much for wanting to become a poltergeist. If those really exist.

"Ugh." I say, kicking imaginary pebbles from my way. "It's no good being dead if I can't do anything. Or search farther."

"I believe that the state of being dead is not supposed to be particularly…good."

I freeze.

I turn slowly.

Sherlock Holmes gives me an icy stare.

"This is rather new for me." Sherlock Holmes says before I can say anything. "I thought myself to be in perfect mental condition, and not prone to hallucinations."

"Uh." I manage dumbly.

"And why are you, something of my brain's making, so utterly dull?" He sounds offended, as if he expected better from his brain.

I'm still too shocked to say anything. Why is he able to see me? Why now?

"Er," I try to collect my scattered thoughts. "First of all, I'm not a hallucination. I'm a ghost."

Sherlock Holmes looks unconvinced.

"Second, why on earth can you see me?"

The moment I say that, Sherlock blinks rapidly, confused. "Well." He says to himself. "That went away quickly." He looks disturbed, and he returns to staring into blank space.

"Are you back to not being able to see me again?" I wave my hand in front of his face. "Hello?" Sherlock Holmes looks right through my hand.

Gah.

What good is it, really, if a living person can see you for a few seconds, but stops being able to see you right away?

No good at all. That's what.

But what did I do to make myself seen? Was I especially frustrated and angry? Yes, I was. But I'm quite a lot more frustrated now, aren't I? Maybe it had to do with Sherlock Holmes as well. Maybe he-

Footsteps sound from the stairs, and Sherlock Holmes stands up.

The door opens to a client. It's a young boy, no more then twelve years old, with short brown hair, and dark eyes. He looks quite nervous.

I frown at this interruption of my thoughts, but decide to see what sort of case this boy would come to see Sherlock Holmes about.

Sherlock Holmes ushers the boy into the client's chair after the boy introduced himself as Matt Richardson.

"Well, speak up." Sherlock Holmes says, hands pressed together under his chin, holding the unfortunate young boy under a hard scrutiny.

The boy glances towards the door uncertainly as if he was regretting the decision to come to the consulting detective already.

"Mr. Holmes, sir, I need your help." he says anxiously.

"Naturally." Sherlock says, impatience slipping into his words.

The boy starts again, hands clasped tightly on his lap. "You might not believe me, but,"

Mr. Holmes sighs and starts gazing longingly at his mobile.

The boy purses his lips at the consulting detective's manner.

"My little brother sees things."

Sherlock Holmes looks up sharply. Considering how he'd just thought he'd seen something, I suppose he would be interested.

"What does he see?"

The boy blanches, again looking uncertain. "Well, I don't say that I really believe him, but-"

"No, no, you don't have to lie to me to gain credibility, Matt. You do believe him."

Matt looks down at his feet.

"He's not crazy or anything. Believe me, Mr. Holmes."

"I'll decide if I believe you or not after you finish talking."

The boy sighs. "He thinks he sees ghosts."

* * *

**See you next chapter!(whenever that may be :))**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Hey, been a quite a while, eh? I'm back! Thank you for your support of this story. Your reviews are really a treat. Favers and followers, you are awesome too!**

**Here is the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.**

* * *

I blink. Matt thinks that his little brother sees ghosts?

First Sherlock Holmes seeing me, and now this… how could this day become even stranger?

"Ghosts." Sherlock says finally, skepticism edging his tone. His sudden interest seems to have evaporated.

Matt nods emphatically. "He says he's been seeing them recently."

"Start from when he started seeing things. Keep it short." Honestly, I'm a little surprised that Sherlock Holmes would deign to listen to the boy, but I'm thankful that he does, because I'm very interested in what he has to say.

The boy takes a deep breath. "Well, it's like this- One of my brother's friends-one day, one of them…" He fumbles for words.

Sherlock Holmes sighs. It's not the sympathetic type, as would have probably been appropriate, but rather an exasperated sigh.

"Died?" Sherlock Holmes says, an eyebrow raised. I grimace at his blunt choice of words. Why did he always have to choose the worst case scenario? For all I know, he could have just been talking about his brother's friend moving to another country!

The boy is silent for a moment, hands clasping tightly together. "Yeah. She was our cousin. Died in a car-crash. Only a few months ago."

Oh. So much for my 'moved to another country' theory. I grudgingly admit that my assumptions hit the mark a lot less than Sherlock Holmes' blunt observations.

Actually, it's safe to say my assumptions are never right, and Sherlock Holmes' observations are always right.

Damn.

"And?"

"Well, of course, he was sad-we all were. So I didn't think it was weird that he started being a little more quiet, and go straight home after school and not be out with his friends. But after a month or so, Mum and Dad got worried. So I asked him if he wanted to go out to the park to play with us, and he said he did the first few times. But after that, he refused. I didn't understand why he suddenly stopped, and I asked him, but he didn't tell me why."

The boy steals a glance at the unperturbed face of the consulting detective.

"One day, he hands me a note. I can tell he tried to be secret about it. He hands me the note, and he runs off. It tells me-"

"The note." Sherlock Holmes interrupts Matt's narrative. "I see you brought it with you. Read the note word for word."

Matt blinks. "Oh. Right." He rummages inside his coat pocket, and pulls out a rumpled piece of paper.

"I see ghosts. There are a lot in the park. One of them scares me a lot. He says his name is Oscar Poole. I'm sorry I don't go to the park with you."

Sherlock Holmes proffers his hand, and gestures toward the note. Matt hands it to him wordlessly. Sherlock examines the piece of paper briefly, pale eyes scanning the messy handwriting.

There is silence in the flat. Sherlock Holmes hands the note back to the boy. His face is somewhat amused.

"I humored him for a while, and let him be, but now, I-I can't help but believe him." Matt says, face serious.

Sherlock Holmes stands up abruptly, and brushes himself off. "That was a nice little chat, Matt, and I do applaud your performance and work on 'the note'-you almost had me there, but-"

Matt looks at him, eyes hurt. "You think I'm lying? Mr. Holmes, I'm not. I didn't believe him at first, but I- he's_ scared_-he's-"

"Listen to me, Matt." Sherlock says, his voice suddenly cold. His hand is already set on the doorknob. "You said you needed my help. What do you need help for? For all I know, your brother doesn't see ghosts. The only problem he has is lack of attention from his family, and now I'm beginning to doubt that your 'brother' even exists at all. So tell your friends who put you up to this that trying to fool me is a very bad idea, and don't forget to tell them that if any of you or your friends try this again, I will not be quite so lenient."

Matt glares at him, also standing up. "The ghost Oscar had a message for you. But I suppose you're not interested. "

"You're right. I'm not. And I think that's your parents looking for you," Sherlock holds the door open for Matt, a stiff smile on his face as concerned voices come up from the stairs. Matt pauses at the door way, looking up into the consulting detective's eyes.

"I told you I would still be around beyond the grave, didn't I, Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes blinks.

"That's the message he told my brother to tell you." The boy says cryptically, and heads down the stairs where his parents are waiting.

For a split second, I think I see apprehension in the consulting detective's eyes as the smile drops from his face. He closes the door, strides quickly to the window, and watches the boy and his parents talk to each other. The parents must be berating their son for his actions. Soon, they go into a sky blue car, and drive away.

I frown. Something seemed…familiar about that family. Oddly, I think I should know them. I squeeze my eyes shut, and gulp, as snippets of memories come flashing into my mind.

It's a continuation of the memory I had at the day at the lab. I'm sitting with Jaimie on the bench, and the teenaged boy comes to pick him up. I wave at him, but I realize I'm not just waving at the teenaged boy, I'm also waving at a boy a little younger than him-I realize that it's Matt.

"_Hey, Bailey. Hope Jaimie here didn't bother you too much." Matt says, making a grab at the ice cream Jaimie holds._

_I laugh, and shake my head. "Nah, I was fine. I hope you don't mind that I bought us some ice cream."_

"_I don't mind as long as Jaimie gets to share it with me!" Matt grins and ruffles the little boy's hair. Jaimie gives me a wide eyed look. _

"_Come on, you two," The eldest of the three says finally, "We need to get going. Mum's gonna worry." He turns towards me. "Thanks for looking after him today, we appreciate it." _

The memory ends. I gape at the street. I knew Matt from when…I was alive? I slide down and sit on the floor. I just missed an opportunity there. Who knows if Matt would come to Baker Street again?

And what was I to that family anyway? A relative? A close friend?

Then, it hits me. Didn't Matt say that they lost a cousin in a car crash?

I feel like sinking down into the carpet and dissolving. Didn't Dr. Hooper mutter something about severe trauma to the head while doing my postmortem?

If what I thought was true, and I was the cousin that died in a car crash a few months ago, then I just met my cousin, and now it's too late to go after them.

I glare at the consulting detective, wishing I could do more than just glare. I wish I could appear again, and make him reconsider his judgment on Matt's case. Of course, I don't know just why and how I managed to become visible a little while ago, so I settle for letting out a quiet scream of frustration.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, and watch as Sherlock Holmes drops the curtain. His head is bowed to his chest, and he looks troubled. He clasps his hands behind his back, and begins to pace.

I wonder if he's bothered at all about what Matt had told him. Who gets messages from ghosts anyways? I think he should be very bothered about it. But maybe the git is thinking about _more important_ things like those experiments he has with bacteria and milk. Friggin experiments! I hope not.

"Oscar Poole." I raise my eyebrows in surprise as the consulting detective mutters the name to himself. "Oscar Poole…how did he know? How did little Matt Richardson find out about Oscar Poole..."

He doesn't look excited, as he does when he is on most cases. He looks troubled.

Well, at least he's actually bothered about it.

I just hope he's bothered enough by it to possibly investigate further into this case.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes doesn't tell John Watson about the case presented to him by Matt. It has been a few days since Matt came to 221b, but Sherlock Holmes still shows no signs of investigating that case.

"So…no cases?" John Watson asks Sherlock Holmes, who is draped on the seat opposite, looking asleep.

"Nope."

"Huh."

"Well, wasn't there was that case with the children's teddy bears-"

"John, I solved it a few minutes ago. It was Cathy's doing."

"What, Cathy? But she was the one who brought the case to us!"

"Exactly."

John Watson splutters. "But she's only four!"

"That's what they said when I was four."

I walk around the flat, giving half an ear to the two men's banter. I've convinced myself to not go out on a trip to try to find Matt and his family, however tempting-the memory of my last attempt to do such a reckless thing is still fresh in my mind- but I wonder if I can do something to get Sherlock Holmes to get interested in the case again.

Writing a message, perhaps? Scratching a message on the wall seemed dramatic enough to get Sherlock Holmes' attention-but then, I can't really interact with objects.

Try to get visible again? That was the best option, but I still couldn't figure out why and how it happened.

I make a face at the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. How much better would my life be if I could lift any of these objects on this mantelpiece, and shock Sherlock Holmes into looking into Matt's case? Not much better life wise, since being dead is a problem, but memory wise, and for Matt's sake, I would be quite a lot happier.

Then, a thought begins to grow in my mind. A rather daring thought.

What if I _could_?

I always say that I can't move objects, but then, have I ever really tried? Sure, I've had a few halfhearted attempts at moving objects, and gave up at the first few unsatisfying results, but I've never really put my heart into it. I never tried moving objects thinking that I actually could move them.

Maybe I could start trying.

I glance back over my shoulder at the two men who are quietly absorbing the afternoon light filtering through the curtains.

The flat is experiencing a rare moment of peace. No experiments blowing up as of yet, the milk stocked up full, and John Watson enjoys a cup of tea without finding it drugged.

It's a shame that I plan to break this peaceful atmosphere as soon as possible.

I turn and face the immobile objects on the mantelpiece with determination.

* * *

**I'm so sorry for the lack of Molly in the chapter! I promise I'll bring her out next chapter. (I hope I can keep to that promise! I miss Molly.)**

**And, before you wonder, this Oscar Poole is not the ghost from the last chapter who was found being creepy alongside the cab. Quite different. **

**P.S: Reviews, Follows, Faves all are appreciated. See you next chapter. **


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